


Up and Down the Roads Going

by apple_pi



Category: The Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Community: slashababy, M/M, Outdoor Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-25
Updated: 2006-12-25
Packaged: 2018-07-28 21:54:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7658092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apple_pi/pseuds/apple_pi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything feels like it's wrapped in clingfilm: one millimeter too far away, just a little too shiny, a touch too plastic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Up and Down the Roads Going

**Author's Note:**

> Set just after filming, summer in the UK. Title from Walt Whitman, We Two Boys Together Clinging, in Leaves of Grass.  
> Author's NOTES: Thanks first of all to the Slashababy organizers for their patience with me. Next, to pippinmctaggart for requesting pwp bunnies back in June, and to herm42 for suggesting this one to Pip - I hope it's okay that I nabbed it. Finally, immense thanks to my FABULOUS beta readers, pippinmctaggart and tarteaucitron. Happy holidays, kiltsandlollies, I hope you wake up to find hobbits in your stockings - translate that as you like. :-)

It’s too strange, being home again, or in Manchester, at least. Directionless, weird, drifting. No job to get up for. No lines to memorize. No pranks to pull, no shower caps on his feet, plastic in his ears, glue between his toes.

Dom’s going spare.

He leaves a note on the table for his mum and dad; stuffs two shirts, a pair of jeans and a few other odds and ends into his duffle and calls a taxi once he’s outside.

The train station is mostly deserted. A tired-faced girl in a railway uniform, smoking outside the entry, smiles at him without recognition in her eyes and he smiles back, walking past her to the ticket machines. The next train is in forty-three minutes, as chance would have it.

He can’t sleep on the train; can’t sleep much at all, which is probably part of the problem—part of why his chest aches and his bones feel older than they should. Everything feels like it’s wrapped in clingfilm: one millimeter too far away, just a little too shiny, a touch too plastic.

The Glasgow station is just as empty as Manchester was; Dom imagines ringing Billy’s doorbell an hour before dawn, imagines how Billy will look when he answers: sleep-warm and blinking, brow furrowed, curious. Imagines not talking, just kissing him. That probably won’t happen, though, because Dom already wants to be talking to him, feels words and questions and requests bubbling up under his breastbone, a sharp ache of _why_ and _will you_ and _can I_ all pushing against the thin, tender skin at the centre of his chest.

But they won’t only talk. Thank god.

Dom walks outside the station, digging a scrap of paper from his pocket. There are three taxis at the rank, and he reads the address off to one of them, climbing in, patting his jacket to make sure he has enough money to pay the driver.

The ride through the streets is quiet: it’s only just stopped raining, and the only sounds are the damp shhhh of the tyres over slick tarmac and the low, uneven hum of the radio in the front seat. Outside, Glasgow is black and shining, orange glow against clouds and empty streets with the wet gleam of traffic lights spilling across concrete and glass. They leave the industrial glow behind; the car stops twenty minutes later in a residential neighbourhood. Dom pays the driver and ducks out of the car, duffle clutched in one hand, looking at Billy’s new house.

It’s small and tidy, and Billy isn’t inside, asleep; he’s standing on the lawn, head tipped back, looking at the sky and then looking at Dom as the car slides away into the early-morning blackness.

As Dom walks toward Billy, Billy turns his face up to the night again. He’s barefoot on the wet grass, wearing jeans and nothing else, arms folded across his chest. The clouds are breaking away and there’s a sickly crescent moon hanging in the western sky.

“Hey,” Dom says. Dark, silent houses all around, and Billy barefoot in the grass. Dom feels as though someone’s flipped a switch, flipped Billy and him around, because isn’t Bill supposed to be the one who sleeps all night, tidy in his tidy room in his tidy house? Maybe they’ve both turned into Dom.

“Saw the moon through the kitchen window when it stopped raining,” Billy says. “Didn’t expect to see you when I came out, though.” He smiles, cheeks plumping beneath his eyes, and turns away. “I was just going round the back. Should be able to see it better.”

Dom follows him, picking his way through the wet grass, duffle digging into one shoulder. His trouser cuffs are wet and cold, sticking to his ankles, by the time they get to the back garden; he wishes he’d worn socks. The air isn’t really cold, though—just chilly, and when the sun rises it’ll get warm. It’s summer, after all, and even Scotland has its warm days, its not-absolutely-bloody-freezing nights.

The back garden slopes down towards a line of trees, and the moon is more visible here, perched in the top branches. “You okay?” Billy asks, and stops in the middle of the grass, turning towards Dom, as if it has only now occurred to him to question his best friend’s 4 a.m. arrival, uninvited, unexpected, unannounced. “Is anything the matter?”

Dom laughs, an almost inaudible huff, and drops his bag. “No, m’fine,” he says. “Missed you.”

“C’mere,” Billy says, and folds Dom close, nose laid along his cheek, lips pursed in a brief, sweet kiss that lands at the corner of his jaw. Dom nearly gasps in relief because it’s all so real—Billy’s arms feel exactly right, and Dom holds on tight for a moment, closing his eyes, inhaling Billy, filling his lungs up with air for the first time in weeks. “Glad you came,” Billy says into his ear, and Dom nods into his neck. He squeezes and releases, stepping back to toe his shoes off, wincing as the tender soles of his feet meet the cold shock of wet, prickly grass, grinning and flexing his toes, digging in. He reaches for Billy’s hand, smiling, looking at the sky.

They stand like that for a minute, shoulder to shoulder, fingers tangled. “I can’t sleep,” Dom says, and Billy snorts.

“Shocking.” He runs a fingertip up Dom’s palm. “So you’ve come to Billy’s House of Comfy Mattresses for the hols, have you?”

“Yeah,” Dom says. “Something like that.” He twitches as Billy repeats the ticklish little caress of his hand, and turns toward him. “Give us a proper kiss, eh?”

Billy smiles as their lips meet. Dom kisses his smile, smiling himself, happiness moving under his skin as he curls his hands around Billy’s biceps: holds him still, kisses him silly, as Billy has said more than once. Billy’s mouth is warm and welcoming, tender lips and curious tongue, sleepy-tasting, wide-awake; he gives as good as he gets, and Dom’s breathing is faster when Billy pulls back to nuzzle his neck, soft touches of his lips and tongue that make Dom shiver.

“Missed you, too,” Billy says into his ear a moment later, and a hand slides down Dom’s back; palms his bottom with easy familiarity. “Kissing and all that.”

“All that?” The melancholy is still there, ache tucked down, but it’s so much better here, pressed close against Billy, smiling against his neck, kissing it, kissing his ear, his jaw, his lips, again and again. “I may have tucked a little something into my bag for the ‘all that’ portion of the visit.”

Billy smirks against his mouth. “Did you? Cheeky little bastard.” He moves suddenly, an ankle around Dom’s leg, and Dom lands on his arse, wet soaking through his trousers immediately, squawking as Billy flops onto him, pinning him, and reaches for the duffle. “Let’s see what you have, eh? Eh?”

Dom wriggles and protests as Billy sprawls across him—Christ, the wet grass is freezing on his back and shoulders, soaking right through his shirt—and empties the bag onto the lawn, laughing, tossing things to and fro until he grips something and shifts. He’s right over Dom, straddling him: grinning down at him and displaying his prize. “Did you not think I’d have lube, Dominic?” He waves the tube at Dom.

“Well, you know how it is,” Dom says breathlessly, laying his hands on Billy’s thighs, sliding them up and down over rough-soft denim. “It’s Glasgow, you just got indoor plumbing last month, so—”

Billy makes a short, distinctly Scottish noise of dismissal, and shifts back slightly, left hand tugging at the button on Dom’s jeans. “You’ll need to be nice to me if you want to use my shower later,” he says.

“Out here?” Dom asks. He’s surprised. Billy has, from the beginning, been more interested in warm beds than cramped coat closets, and although Dom has talked him into more than a few compromising and semi-public escapades, it’s usually been an effort.

“Might help you sleep,” Billy says, and lifts off Dom. He sits beside him on the grass and works his jeans and boxers off, cursing and laughing as the wet grass touches his skin.

Dom shrugs and pushes his own jeans the rest of the way off. Maybe they _have_ both turned into him, he thinks as he pulls his shirt over his head. Whatever’s happened, Billy is naked, body glowing in the clean darkness, and when he leans down over Dom again, his expression is softer, no longer laughing. “Been too long,” he says, and kisses Dom, one wet hand sliding under Dom’s neck, bringing him up into the kiss even as Dom kicks his trousers away.

“Come on,” Dom says into Billy’s mouth; they’re both shivering a little, smiles appearing and disappearing as Billy moves: kneels between Dom’s thighs and pushes them apart; hunches to kiss Dom’s mouth, chin, neck, nipples, even as his slippery fingers press and rub, the cold wet grass warming as Dom breathes and moves, rubbing his cock against Billy’s skin wherever he can, staring up at the faint stars that have survived the city’s industrial chimneys.

“Warm inside you,” Billy says; he’s got three fingers inside Dom, moving slowly in and out. His head is on Dom’s belly, turned to the side, eyes closed, and Dom’s feet are flat on the grass, hips moving restlessly.

“Come on,” Dom says again, and Billy rises to his knees. Lifts Dom’s legs to drape over his shoulders and presses inward in one long, slow thrust that makes his whole face go blank and unreadable, turned inward. “Okay?” Dom asks, and Billy’s eyes focus again.

He looks down at Dom and smiles. “Shouldn’t I ask you that?” he says, and then he’s moving. “Can’t do you, too,” he manages, breathless, and Dom nods.

It’s good, strange, surreal: Naked arse in the air, Billy inside him as tight and hot and slick as it’s ever been, the vault of black sky overhead and his head on the downslope so Dom feels as if he might slide away. His left hand is tangled in wet grass and mud, prickly, gritty under his fingernails; his right hand moves slow and tight on his cock as he watches Billy.

Billy, who grips him with small, hard hands on his hips, heavy biceps thrown into high relief by the strength he’s using to hold Dom up. Billy, whose head is lowered, eyes closed as he pushes slowly into Dom, pulls out and pushes in over and over, face tight with concentration. Billy, pressed against him wet and naked, in his backyard in Glasgow, bits of grass on his back, his hands, his legs, one on his belly.

Dom lets go of the grass.

Billy’s thrusts speed; Dom jerks his cock faster and slides his free hand down his stomach, between his legs to his balls, lower, until he can feel where they’re joined: the thin, delicate skin of his hole stretched around Billy’s cock, sliding inward again and again. “Ah, Christ,” Dom gasps, and just like that he comes, body curving with the electrical surge of it. He shudders, back arching, and with his eyes closed feels the warm wet splatter of it, striping his chest and belly. “Annnnnngh,” he moans, shuddering, going limp, legs slipping off Billy’s shoulders to swing uselessly over his elbows.

“Oh, Christ,” Billy grates out, and his hips snap forward once, twice, three times as Dom opens bleary eyes and sees Billy’s head thrown back as he comes, groaning, hands white-knuckled on Dom’s hips. Dom feels another little pulse of pleasure at the sight and grits his teeth as his cock twitches, sending a tremble through his body.

Billy collapses onto his heels, still holding Dom’s arse and legs mostly off the wet grass. “Jesus,” he gasps. He lets go of Dom’s hips carefully and Dom makes a weak noise of protest as the cold, wet ground comes into contact with more skin. “Fuck that, you’re heavy,” Billy pants.

“You’re no kind of gentleman,” Dom says, buzzing pleasantly, eyes heavy. The grass is tickling him in unmentionable places, and his come is cool and sticky on his abdomen, but he’s not quite ready to move.

Billy flops forward in slow motion to lie on Dom. “I’ve rarely been confused with a gentleman,” he says, and Dom grunts. “I’ve got grass on my bits,” Billy says.

“And come in your chest hair, now,” Dom adds.

“Ah, fuck,” Billy murmurs.

They’re still for a few moments. “The neighbours get up early,” Billy says after a time.

“I need to use your indoor plumbing,” Dom says.

“Well, come on then,” Billy says, “just had it installed last month,” and, sighing, they help each other up, clinging, unsuccessfully attempting to brush off the grass that’s decorating their bodies.

“Shower, then sleep?” Dom says hopefully, stuffing things into the duffle.

Billy picks up his jeans and looks at them thoughtfully for a moment, then tosses them towards the house. “Shower, then eat, then sleep,” he says. There are grass-stains on his knees, dark smudges that make Dom smile when he looks at them.

“I suppose you’ll expect me to cook,” Dom says. He can’t tell if he got everything Billy tosses out of the bag, but he can’t be arsed to care, at this point.

“Yep,” Billy says, and then he’s hugging Dom again. It’s messy and prickly with grass, and Dom’s wet inside and out with rain and dew and other, stickier, fluids, but Billy is warm and his nose fits against Dom’s neck, his hands fit on Dom’s waist. His chin is rough on Dom’s shoulder, and Dom yawns into his ear and clings to him for just a moment, outside in Glasgow, naked in Billy’s back garden.

His chest doesn’t hurt right now, and that—and the pale glimmer of Billy’s bare arse as Dom follows him to the house—is enough. Dom yawns again, sleepy, everything he looks at clear and washed clean, and he doesn’t worry about tomorrow.


End file.
